A Season for Murder

by Ann Granger

  Meredith walked on. Gradually the roofs of Pook’s Common’s cottages vanished from view. She might have been on the moon, it was so lonely, bare, untouched. Here and there scraps of fur or feathers marked where some night-hunting predator had caught its prey. After a while the ground beneath her feet became soggy and she was glad of the boots she wore. Then she heard water running and came across a narrow brackish stream bisecting the common from east to west. To her right hand a line of dark trees marked the beginning of a plantation of conifers – regimented intruders which did not belong here – and on the muddy banks of the stream itself were several small, sharp, cloven hoofprints. Not pookas. Not fairy horses, but deer. They must lurk over there in the plantation and come out early in the day to forage about on the common, nibbling at the few shrubs and trees and the coarse grasses.

  Far enough for one day, thought Meredith. She felt better now. She had conquered her fear of the common and blown her cares away for the time being. She turned.

  A man stood behind her. Meredith gave an involuntary shriek. He started forward, hand outstretched and exclaimed, ‘I’m so sorry! Please forgive me! I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just going to call out to attract your attention – but you turned suddenly—’

  It was Colin Deanes, in his fur-trimmed parka, his spectacles reflecting the pale sunlight so that she could not see his eyes, smiling anxiously at her and with head pushed forward as if peering short-sightedly to see if she accepted his reassurances.

  ‘Oh, Mr Deanes . . .’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise anyone was out here.’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, it’s a lonely spot. I see you know who I am – and I know that you are Chief Inspector Markby’s friend – but I’m afraid I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Meredith Mitchell.’ They shook hands formally. ‘I’m living over there—’ she pointed. ‘At Pook’s Common.’

  ‘Oh, indeed? Have you been there long? I must admit I don’t know it – except by name.’

  ‘It’s very small. Only half a dozen cottages, a garage and a couple of council houses on the main road. Oh, and the stables. I haven’t been there very long, no. About two weeks.’

  ‘I live over there – ’ he pointed beyond her further out into the common. ‘It’s a tumbledown old place but I rented it extremely cheaply to write my book.’

  ‘No disturbance out here, I imagine, good place!’ she observed.

  He chuckled. ‘True. But actually my house is not as remote as might seem from this aspect. There’s no direct access to it from this direction. But on the other side there’s an unmade road which runs for about half a mile to come out and join the tarmac road at The Black Dog pub – where I saw you with Markby.’

  ‘Oh, yes – I see. It seemed to me that we took a very roundabout route to get there when Alan drove me there from Pook’s Common.’

  ‘Yes, he would need to. There aren’t any roads right across the common and to get to the other side you have to go round it. It’s a very ancient piece of open land. And remarkable, I’m told, for its fauna and flora.’

  ‘You could have fooled me!’ she said ruefully, looking around at the desolation.

  Deanes laughed again. ‘You should meet Dr Krasny. He’s something to do with the university and last summer I bumped into him several times out here. He seemed to be able to name every blade of grass. I gather he came out to gather specimens and information for his work. I used to see him creeping about bent double. At first I couldn’t imagine what he was up to. After a while I got to know him quite well and he’d call in at my place for a cup of tea and tell me what he’d managed to see on his expeditions. Usually I don’t walk out in this direction – I go the other way and finish up at The Black Dog. In the summer, it does look more attractive out here, quite pleasant on a sunny day.’

  ‘How’s the book going?’

  ‘Oh, I finished that quite some time ago and that’s all behind me now. Look out for it in the bookshops! I always take the opportunity to plug my works if possible!’ He smiled nervously again. ‘I’m living here under false pretences to some extent although I’ve started to put together a few notes which I hope will eventually turn into the next book. I’ve the lease on the house until spring so I’ve stayed on. I quite like it down here. And I’ve become involved with one or two local problems.’ He gave her a look in which a kind of defiance was mixed with a nervousness. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘that what I try to do isn’t always popular. ‘The public often don’t understand and very often, I’m sorry to say, the police don’t.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ murmured Meredith awkwardly.

  ‘There are causes which are popular and acceptable,’ Deanes went on. ‘And those which aren’t. Often the ones further afield call up more sympathy than the ones near at home for the simple reason the nearer ones can be seen first hand and the imperfections in them are all too visible. You were at The Bunch of Grapes last night, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I was. You’re referring to the young fellow Pardy, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes – not an attractive youth I’m the first to admit. They never are. They have problems and one of them is that they present themselves to the world as so unlikable. If they have a cause they don’t know how to present it. They don’t inspire generosity or forgiveness. They handle their own defence badly. They’re aggressive when they ought to be conciliatory. They offend needlessly. Pardy’s not an exception, he’s fairly typical. He takes the attitude that if the world doesn’t like him, he can get along without it. But of course, he can’t. He is very young – only twenty.’

  ‘I suppose it is young. But he behaved very badly, didn’t he – I’m talking about the affair in the Market Square on Boxing Day. I was there – I saw it happen.’

  ‘Did you?’ Deanes pushed his spectacles further up his nose in what seemed a habit. ‘I didn’t. That puts me at a disadvantage – but I have been spending some time with young Simon. He’s a sad, muddled, lonely person underneath the brash exterior.’

  We’re all sad, muddled and lonely, thought Meredith. Some of us cope better than others, that’s all. ‘He shouldn’t have been saying the things he was in the pub last night. It was asking for trouble.’

  ‘He does – he does ask for trouble!’ Deanes said eagerly. ‘That’s just the point! He goes out looking for trouble and he finds it. Then he becomes more introverted and bitter. What we need to do is to get him off that path. He’s basically an intelligent young man and at the moment he’s throwing his life away.’

  Meredith studied him thoughtfully. His face was flushed. His eyes shone behind the lenses and there was an intensity in his face and voice which couldn’t be ignored. He cares, she thought. He really cares.

  Aloud she said slowly, ‘You must have your share of failures. Don’t you ever get discouraged?’

  Deanes grimaced. ‘I’d be lying if I said, no. Of course I do. But the successes more than make up for it. The thing to do is to break the cycle. The very worst thing which could happen to Pardy is that he could serve any kind of custodial sentence. It would put him in the company of people who would encourage the worst in him. He’d be lost for good.’

  ‘Some people might disagree.’

  ‘They don’t work with these youngsters!’ Deanes said passionately. ‘They don’t know!’ He seemed to become aware of the vehemence in his own voice and looked embarrassed. ‘Forgive me for bending your ear with my views. I can’t help it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’m interested to hear them. I’m glad I met you,’ Meredith said sincerely.

  Deanes smiled, more relaxed and looking suddenly quite an attractive man. It’s the specs, Meredith thought, together with the sombre expression and all the nervous tics which make him look plain. He really isn’t bad-looking and he isn’t that old. Younger than I thought at first. Thirty-nine? Forty? Not more.

  ‘I must get back,’ she said. ‘We’ll meet again, no doubt.’

  ‘Yes – I certainly hope so!’ He hesitated. ‘If you
walk out on the common again and get a bit further, call in at my place for a cup of coffee. I’m generally there during the day.’

  ‘I will, thanks – Happy New Year.’

  ‘Oh yes, I keep forgetting – ’ he grimaced again. ‘Happy New Year!’

  When she walked past the stables on her way home, she saw Markby’s car had gone. He’d taken Tom back with him to Bamford. Meredith hesitated, pushed open the gate of the stable yard and walked in. Blazer put his head over the loose-box door and snickered at her.

  ‘Hullo, old chap,’ she said, patting his nose. He pushed his head against her chest and snorted. ‘I haven’t brought you your titbit, I’m afraid. Sorry. You miss her, don’t you?’ Blazer shook his head up and down for all the world as if he was nodding agreement. ‘I wish you could talk,’ she told him. ‘You could probably tell a lot we’d like to know.’ She gave his neck a last pat and went on her way home.

  When Alan arrived that evening she still hadn’t decided what to say to him and as it was, he put in a preemptive bid.

  ‘It’s difficult to find a place open today – so many are closed after staying open late last night. But there’s a little Italian restaurant on the Cherton road and they’re open. I booked a table – I hope that’s okay?’

  ‘Oh – yes,’ she said weakly. Perhaps it would be better at that. Easier to talk on neutral ground.

  The restaurant was benefiting from being one of the few open for business. It was full and obviously booking a table had been necessary.

  ‘How is Tom?’ asked Meredith a trifle archly as she plunged a fork into a steaming dish of tagliatelle al forno.

  ‘He won’t cause any more trouble.’

  ‘You sound so sure.’

  Markby pulled a face. ‘Let’s say then, I am reasonably confident he won’t.’

  Meredith sipped at her glass of wine and peeped at her companion over the rim. It was a face she already felt she knew so well, all the little lines and wrinkles, the untidy lock of fair hair. This wasn’t going to be easy. It was going to be murder. An unfortunate word. She sought for some kind of opening to the subject, dodged it at the last minute, and said instead, ‘I met Colin Deanes out on the common today.’

  ‘You did?’ He looked both surprised and displeased.

  ‘Yes, don’t glower. He’s actually a very nice man. He’s got a bee in his bonnet about his cause, that’s all. A lot of what he says makes sense, you know.’

  ‘I never said it didn’t. It’s the way he says it which bugs me. We’re not going to talk about him, are we?’

  ‘No – no we’re not.’ Time to grasp the nettle. Meredith put down her fork. She rested her elbows on the table and placed her fingers together carefully steeple fashion, staring at them intently as she did so. ‘Alan, there’s something I’ve got to say. It’s difficult and I’m sure I won’t say it well. Like Deanes, I’ll phrase it all wrongly and you’ll take offence. The thing is – I – we – I don’t think our relationship can develop into anything other than it is now.’ She waited to see what he’d say, hoping he might nod understandingly. He didn’t.

  ‘Go on,’ he said expressionlessly.

  ‘I value our friendship, truly. I like your company. I like you – oh, this is awful. Alan, maybe I’m wrong but I feel that you hope that – well – we might get a lot closer one day.’

  ‘Suppose I do? Is it that dreadful? Look, Meredith – ’ he leaned forward. ‘I told you, right at the beginning – when you were last in England – that I was prepared to wait – ’

  ‘Yes, I know and you have. But no one waits for ever. You won’t – you’ll get fed up with it.’

  ‘Allow me to decide when I’m fed up!’ he said, annoyance sounding in his voice and showing on his face.

  ‘You see, I think you really need a wife!’ Meredith plunged to the heart of the matter. What was the use of pussy-footing about, after all? ‘And that can’t be me. I couldn’t take on that kind of thing.’

  ‘I’ve been married!’ he snapped. ‘It was an unmitigated disaster!’

  ‘Probably because you married the wrong woman and if you took up with me permanently – in any way – you’d be repeating the mistake. I’m the wrong woman.’

  ‘Listen – ’ he hissed, glancing at the next table. ‘This is not the place – ’

  ‘Where is, then?’

  ‘All right. There are two points to answer in what you said. One, it wasn’t Rachel’s fault my marriage headed straight for the rocks. I dare say I drove her round the bend. Being married to a policeman is difficult and if the strains proved too much for her, she wasn’t the first. Policemen’s marriages often founder.’

  And she wanted a different kind of life, he thought, remembering. Parties, her friends, a diary of social engagements. And he had always been dragging his heels, pleading pressure of work, wanting to spend his spare time gardening, embarrassing her by turning up in old clothes when she was entertaining her friends. He thrust the memories away.

  ‘Secondly, I know what kind of woman I want. I want you.’

  ‘You see? There you are! You’ve said it! Oh, Alan, it’s not that it isn’t flattering – ’

  ‘It’s not meant to be flattering!’ he snarled. The woman at the next table cast him a startled look. She leaned forward and whispered to her companion. He sneaked a sideways glance at them.

  ‘You know what I mean. I wish I hadn’t started this.’

  ‘So why did you?’

  ‘Because I’m trying to be fair to you!’ The man at the next table met her eye. His was unfriendly. He was closing ranks with the male under attack at the next table to his. ‘Mind your own business!’ said Meredith to him crossly.

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ exclaimed the man’s companion, bridling. Sisterly sympathy vanished before instinct to defend her menfolk.

  ‘Meredith!’ said Markby in agony. ‘It’s all right – ’ He smiled placatingly at the couple.

  An uneasy silence fell during which they ate determinedly, doing scant justice to a very good meal. She looked surreptitiously at Markby. He looked miserable. It was all her fault.

  ‘I didn’t mean to make a scene . . .’ she began in a whisper. ‘I was only trying to tell you what I thought.’

  ‘No, you weren’t.’

  ‘What?’ She gaped at him.

  Markby put down knife and fork and met her eye squarely, his expression grim. ‘You were telling me what Harriet thought. I’m seeing you but I’m hearing Harriet Needham. The other day you were in a tangle because you couldn’t cook like her. Now you feel you’ve got to imitate her lifestyle.’

  ‘That’s unfair and untrue!’ she gasped, appalled.

  ‘Is it?’

  The waiter was making his way toward them. Was he, wondered Meredith, about to ask them to leave? He bent over Markby. ‘There is a telephone call for you, sir.’

  Markby groaned and threw down his napkin. ‘I left this number just in case there was a genuine emergency. Excuse me, Meredith, I’ll have to go and answer it.’

  Perhaps, however, they were both of them grateful for the interruption. Left alone at the table, Meredith found herself under the frank scrutiny of the couple at the next one. The woman looked offended. The man looked belligerent. I’ve messed up our evening, she thought, and I’ve messed up theirs. They’ll go out of here now and have a blazing row about nothing.

  Markby was coming back. He looked businesslike but he also looked as if the business concerned something other than their interrupted conversation. He stooped to murmur in her ear. ‘I’ll have to go straight away to The Crossed Keys. Fran Needham-Burrell has been attacked.’

  ‘What?’ Meredith looked up at him shocked, all else immediately forgotten. ‘Is she hurt?’ She jumped to her feet and grasped her shoulderbag. ‘I’ll come with you!’

  Some confusion reigned at The Crossed Keys. A uniformed policeman stood in the doorway of the hotel entrance. Would-be customers making for the bar entrance further along edged cautiously around
him. Sergeant Pearce, snappily dressed, slouched disconsolately by the reception desk, obviously dragged away from some New Year festivity, and the manager stood in the middle of the lobby, wringing his hands. Meredith had never seen anyone do that before – only read it – but he was. The hands twisted in and out of one another, the palms rubbing with a soft, rasping sound which set her teeth on edge. He appeared unnaturally pale – but that was probably distress. The distress was two-fold. On the one hand he wanted to deal with the upset – on the other hand he wanted to keep knowledge of it from the patrons of the public bar and the other hotel guests.

  Pearce, when he saw Markby, straightened up and said briskly, ‘Good evening, sir. Sorry to interrupt your evening but I thought you’d want to know.’ He caught sight of Meredith and added, ‘Good evening, ma’am!’ which seemed very formal and made her feel like the Colonel’s lady. ‘Sorry about this.’

  ‘That’s all right, Sergeant Pearce,’ she said, trying not to sound grand. ‘One of those things.’ Daft remark. But for a policeman it was, it was just one of those things. For consular officials too. It didn’t make it any the less distressing.

  ‘Where is she?’ demanded Markby.

  The manager darted forward. ‘The lady is upstairs with Dr Pringle! I wanted to send for the ambulance but she wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted on Dr Pringle only. She’s a very strong-minded lady. But really, I know I ought to have sent for the ambulance because of the insurance. We have to cover ourselves and – ’

  Markby broke rudely into the explanation of his dilemma. ‘I’ll have a word with you later.’

  He ran up the service stairs two at a time, Pearce and Meredith hard on his heels. The door of number twenty stood open. Framed by the doorway they saw as in one of those Victorian paintings which tell a story, Fran sitting on a chair and Jack Pringle bending over her. He was carefully taping a gauze pad to her forehead and she was saying with some asperity, ‘Mind my hair, Jack!’